An Anonymous Girl by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen Page B
Authors: Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen
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conflict before certainty is obtained.
And sometimes a warning shot, a decisive show of strength, can circumvent the need for a battle at all.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Thursday, December 6
My clients’ skin often reveals something about their lives.
When the sixty-something woman opens her door, I notice the clues: Many smile lines; far fewer from frowning. Her pale complexion is dotted with freckles and sunspots, and her blue eyes are bright.
She introduces herself as Shirley Graham, then takes my coat and wrap, whichI’ve brought so I can return it to Dr. Shields, and hangs them in her tiny hall closet.
I follow her into her galley kitchen, set down my makeup case, and gently flex and straighten my hand to ease the tightness. It’s 3:55 P.M. , and Mrs. Graham is my last appointment of the day. Right after I finish here, I’m going to see Dr. Shields.
I’ve vowed to finally ask her why she needs informationabout my personal life. It’s such a reasonable question. I don’t know why I haven’t felt able to bring it up before.
Before we start, would you mind if I asked a question?
That’s how I’m going to phrase it, I’ve decided.
“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Graham offers.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, but thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Graham looks disappointed. “It’s no trouble. I always have tea at four.”
Dr. Shields’s office is a half hour away, assuming there’s no subway delay, and I’m due there at five-thirty. I hesitate. “You know what? Tea sounds great.”
While Mrs. Graham pries the lid off a blue tin of Royal Dansk butter cookies and arranges them on a little china plate, I scout out the best lighting in the apartment.
“What’s the big event tonight?” I ask as I step onto the livingroom’s frayed rug and move aside a gauzy, lace-topped curtain covering the sole window. But the brick wall of a neighboring apartment blots out the sun.
“I’m going to dinner,” she says. “It’s my wedding anniversary—forty-two years.”
“Forty-two years,” I say. “That’s wonderful.”
I walk back to the small counter that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“I’ve never had mymakeup done by a professional before, but I have this coupon, so I thought,
Why not?
” Mrs. Graham pulls the slip of paper off the refrigerator, where it was secured with a magnet shaped like a daisy, and hands it to me.
The coupon expired two months ago, but I pretend not to notice. Hopefully my boss will honor it; if not, I’ll have to eat the cost.
The kettle shrieks and Mrs. Graham poursthe steaming water into a china pot, then dips in two bags of Lipton tea.
“How about we work right here while we have tea,” I suggest, gesturing to two high-back stools pulled up to the counter. The space is barely adequate for my supplies, but the overhead light is strong.
“Oh, are you in a rush?” Mrs. Graham asks as she covers the pot with a quilted cozy and sets it down on the counter.
“No, no, we’ve got plenty of time,” I say reflexively.
I regret it when she goes to the refrigerator and takes out a pint of half-and-half, then retrieves a little china pitcher and transfers the cream into it. As she arranges the cups and teapot and cream and sugar on a tray, I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave: 4:12.
“Shall we get started?” I pull back Mrs. Graham’s stooland pat the seat. Then I reach into my case and select a few bottles of oil-based foundation, which will be kinder to Mrs. Graham’s skin. I begin to mix two together on the back of my hand, noticing my burgundy polish has a tiny chip.
Before I can begin to apply it, Mrs. Graham bends over and peers into my case. “Oh, look at all your little pots and potions!” She points to an egg-shaped sponge.“What’s this for?”
“Blending foundation,” I say. My fingers feel itchy with the need to continue. I fight the urge to turn around and glance at the kitchen clock. “Here, let me show you.”
If I select a single
And sometimes a warning shot, a decisive show of strength, can circumvent the need for a battle at all.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Thursday, December 6
My clients’ skin often reveals something about their lives.
When the sixty-something woman opens her door, I notice the clues: Many smile lines; far fewer from frowning. Her pale complexion is dotted with freckles and sunspots, and her blue eyes are bright.
She introduces herself as Shirley Graham, then takes my coat and wrap, whichI’ve brought so I can return it to Dr. Shields, and hangs them in her tiny hall closet.
I follow her into her galley kitchen, set down my makeup case, and gently flex and straighten my hand to ease the tightness. It’s 3:55 P.M. , and Mrs. Graham is my last appointment of the day. Right after I finish here, I’m going to see Dr. Shields.
I’ve vowed to finally ask her why she needs informationabout my personal life. It’s such a reasonable question. I don’t know why I haven’t felt able to bring it up before.
Before we start, would you mind if I asked a question?
That’s how I’m going to phrase it, I’ve decided.
“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Graham offers.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, but thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Graham looks disappointed. “It’s no trouble. I always have tea at four.”
Dr. Shields’s office is a half hour away, assuming there’s no subway delay, and I’m due there at five-thirty. I hesitate. “You know what? Tea sounds great.”
While Mrs. Graham pries the lid off a blue tin of Royal Dansk butter cookies and arranges them on a little china plate, I scout out the best lighting in the apartment.
“What’s the big event tonight?” I ask as I step onto the livingroom’s frayed rug and move aside a gauzy, lace-topped curtain covering the sole window. But the brick wall of a neighboring apartment blots out the sun.
“I’m going to dinner,” she says. “It’s my wedding anniversary—forty-two years.”
“Forty-two years,” I say. “That’s wonderful.”
I walk back to the small counter that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“I’ve never had mymakeup done by a professional before, but I have this coupon, so I thought,
Why not?
” Mrs. Graham pulls the slip of paper off the refrigerator, where it was secured with a magnet shaped like a daisy, and hands it to me.
The coupon expired two months ago, but I pretend not to notice. Hopefully my boss will honor it; if not, I’ll have to eat the cost.
The kettle shrieks and Mrs. Graham poursthe steaming water into a china pot, then dips in two bags of Lipton tea.
“How about we work right here while we have tea,” I suggest, gesturing to two high-back stools pulled up to the counter. The space is barely adequate for my supplies, but the overhead light is strong.
“Oh, are you in a rush?” Mrs. Graham asks as she covers the pot with a quilted cozy and sets it down on the counter.
“No, no, we’ve got plenty of time,” I say reflexively.
I regret it when she goes to the refrigerator and takes out a pint of half-and-half, then retrieves a little china pitcher and transfers the cream into it. As she arranges the cups and teapot and cream and sugar on a tray, I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave: 4:12.
“Shall we get started?” I pull back Mrs. Graham’s stooland pat the seat. Then I reach into my case and select a few bottles of oil-based foundation, which will be kinder to Mrs. Graham’s skin. I begin to mix two together on the back of my hand, noticing my burgundy polish has a tiny chip.
Before I can begin to apply it, Mrs. Graham bends over and peers into my case. “Oh, look at all your little pots and potions!” She points to an egg-shaped sponge.“What’s this for?”
“Blending foundation,” I say. My fingers feel itchy with the need to continue. I fight the urge to turn around and glance at the kitchen clock. “Here, let me show you.”
If I select a single
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